When The Program Fails People Die Part II
A Sunny Alexander-Johnson And Henry James Series
My name is Sunny Alexander-Johnson, and I’m Henry James, and we’re writers for Dark Sides of the Truth magazine.
After a lengthy lunch at Johnson’s where a certain someone polished off two cheeseburgers, an entire basket of chili cheese fries and not one, but two malted strawberry milkshakes, we headed downtown.
“I swear to God Johnson, you’ve got to have a tapeworm for a kid in your stomach. I’ve never seen you eat that much food in my life.”
“Just keep your eyes on the damn road old man. Get off of thirty-five and take Interregional, then get on the frontage at East St. Elmo Road.”
“Why can’t I just take East Ben White Blvd?”
“Dammit, old man. Do you argue like this with mom when she gives you directions?”
“No, because your mother isn’t a bossy little princess like you. And she trusts my driving skills.”
“I didn’t say a thing about your driving skills. It’s you being directionally challenged that bothers the hell out of me.”
“Bite my ass, Johnson.”
“Just take the exit, Henry.”
“Fine.”
We rolled into the Omni parking lot around two-thirty in the afternoon, found a spot in the open-air parking lot as close to the front exit as we could, and then went into the lobby. The Omni was a pretty classy hotel, carpeted floors beginning at the automatic entrance, covering every square inch.
Chandeliers above us provided soothing light that seemed to put you at ease as you listened to alternative jazz bubbling from speakers in the ceiling. We made ourselves comfortable in a tiny nook of chairs by one of the large squares of window glass along the front.
“So, what time is Robert going to be here?”
“He said he was leaving as I hung up from him. Probably be here right behind us.”
“Unless he took East Ben White Blvd, which means we won’t see him for a month.”
“James? One more snide comment from you, and I’ll punch you in the throat.”
Tapping on the window, Robert Johnson, husband of Shaundrika Alexander-Johnson and half brother to the more directionally challenged of us waved and then quickly paced to the front doors, stopping when he reached us.
He was wearing a light windbreaker, and when he plopped onto a chair across from us, both tails flopped open to expose a holster and nine-millimeter pistol resting on his hip.
Of course, in Robert’s line of work and his affiliation with the FBI, CIA, and working for the NSA cyber security team as he did, it wasn’t out of the ordinary for him to wear a weapon.
What was interesting is that this was the first time we’ve ever seen him do it.
“You seeing what I see, princess?”
“Yes, I am. Robert, you want to let us know what’s going on?”
“What do you mean, hon?”
“Don’t hon me, Robert Wayne Johnson. Why in the hell are you wearing that pistol?”
“Oh dude, she used your middle name. You’re in deep shit now.”
“Shut up, Henry. Look Shaundrika. Not here. Let’s go see Manny first.”
“Uh, I want to know…”
“Shaundrika, I said, not here!”
The whisper from Robert carried enough bite in it to actually surprise us. The interesting thing about Robert was he was actually a pretty laid back dude. We’d rarely seen him get overly angry or excited about anything. Well, there was that one time he’d sucker-punched his brother because his brother was being a stupid assed jerk.
But aside from that, he always seemed calm under pressure, even though he worked in a pressure cooker environment.
But not today. This afternoon, sitting with us in the lobby of the Omni, he seemed on edge, as if the slightest sudden movement or sharp noise would send him to instant flight or fight mode.
“Damn little brother. What the hell’s going on?”
“That goes for you too, Henry. Not another word about this until we get in front of Manny. Let’s go.”
We followed Robert to the elevators, each offering the other wide-eyed glances of astonishment.
It was kind of like standing inside a dark room of swinging pendulums with blades attached to them. You couldn’t see where the final blow was coming from, but you knew it was coming, and you knew when it did things were going get a whole lot worse before they got better.
None of us spoke in the elevator, each of us staring at the indicator above the polished stainless doors. When the sultry voice of the elevator lady announced the fifth floor and the doors parted, we stepped out and followed Robert to room 554. Robert tapped on the door, then stepped back into the hallway.
“Get close behind me, you two.”
“Do what?”
“I said to get close. Manny’s not going to open the damn door unless he sees everybody through the peephole.”
“Are you serious, Robert?”
“Trust me, baby, this is not a game.”
“Everybody say cheese.”
“This is not the time for that shit, big brother.”
“Wow, tough crowd.”
Standing in the hallway with only the sounds of ice clinking into a metal bin of an ice machine in a small vending room we’d passed by, we finally heard the distinct sound of the door’s security lock as it flipped back. The door cracked open about two inches, and we saw Manny’s face, drawn and pinched with worry in the opening. He opened the door with one hand; in the other, he held his service revolver, his finger curled around the trigger.
Wordless, we filed in, instantly spying a young woman and an even younger boy sitting on the bed watching television. Neither of us considers ourselves experts on lineage, but it seemed pretty clear to us the boy and the woman were related somehow.
“Were you tailed, Robert?”
“No.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Hermanos? Tailed by who?”
“Henry, save the questions. Once you hear what I have to say, you’ll understand what I meant on the call this morning.”
“Well, I’m guessing it has something to do with those two over there.”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
Read On — When The Program Fails People Die Part III
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